Spiritual

I see an angel, 
On top of the belltower. 
It rings seven times. 
Seven times. 
A holy number, 
For an unholy being. 
With raven wings folded, 
He crouches on the spire. 
Vigilent, scythe in hand. 
With pale black hair, 
And cold grey eyes, 
His presence chills air, 
And darkens skies. 
Only when the bell, 
Tolls at the midnight hour, 
Does he decend 
To reap His most grim, 
And sacred harvest. 
No wall con contain him. 
Nor arrow peirce, 
Nor axehead cleave Him. 
For what can kill what He is? 
If we are what we are. 
Then He is what He is. 
Since He is dead, 
He must be, 
Death.

The Angel